


Deliberate

by shambling



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Filth utter filth, Handcuffs, M/M, PWP, implications arising from Latin homework, ive got a thing for rolled up shirt sleeves, the fun kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8291816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: Nightingale takes off his clothes. Slowly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Back in my day, when internet fandom was young and all on livejournal, every second fic was pwp slash; barely a side of a4 and always filth.
> 
> This continues in that grand tradition.

Perhaps because he was usually so wedded to the three piece suit, but in some ways Nightingale with his jacket off, tie slightly loosened and one button undone, shirt sleeves rolled up, seemed more naked to me than usual.

He was careful to breathe normally, his voice in an even measure, but I couldn't help noticing he was making a special effort not to look at me, muttering about having warned me of the dangers of not doing my Latin practise.

I couldn't have cared much less if I'd tried, too absorbed in staring at him, half of me wanting to stare more and the other half wanting him to just hurry up, because being this hard for this long is jut uncomfortable eventually. I gently rattled the handcuffs against the bed head, part protest part reminder that I was still there, still waiting. Not the police issue ones you understand, that would surely put a shoulder out, but standard, Soho sex shop quick release with padding (a tenner). God I like this game though, even if he is a little prone to seemingly to actually have forgotten me sometimes.

Nightingale gave me one of his small, dangerous smiles but said nothing, resuming undressing himself with slow and deliberate certainty.

The tie was removed and smoothed out, placed over the chair back. Cufflinks in their box and the trousers neatly folded and placed on a hanger in the wardrobe by their counterparts. Socks removed and placed in the washing basket, and I swear I've never known a man unbutton his shirt more slowly in my entire life. By this point I actively was straining against the bed, making little whimpering noises and trying to find a way to contort my leg so I could get some friction on my cock.

He definitely smirked then, removing his shirt and hanging that up too, delicate care. I could see the outline of his erection through his underwear, but he was made of stronger stuff than I and didn't even brush it when he removed this final piece of clothing.

I'm not ashamed to say I actually whined a bit. It's like a bloody low grade strip tease watching him get undressed it really is.

But finally, he's kneeling and the foot of the bed, ghosting a touch across my cock so that I actually let out a sort of high pitched keening noise, before using his other hand to coat everything quite liberally with lube.

He hitches my ankles up onto his shoulders before finally, mercifully slipping a finger in. "Fuck you're good" I mumble, and he opts only to raise a single eyebrow in response and add another finger. I shiver, hot and cold and clammy with pleasure, in a way that turns into a back arching shudder of joy when the hand not currently scissoring in my arse comes to stroke my cock again.

It's about then that I start to beg, needy and a bit desperate: "oh god please fuck me I need you to fuck me please god sir."

I would say anything in this moment, and I do until he kisses me to shut me up, withdrawing both hands at the same time in a way that makes me moan desperately and obscenely into his mouth. He breaks the kiss to get my legs properly hitched over his shoulders so that he can line himself up, finally giving in to human impulse and giving himself a few swift strokes before pushing slowly, gently, gloriously into me.

I am happy to mumble and talk during sex, a stream of incoherent and unending filth, Nightingale is more specific. Deliberate. As with his undressing, but what he does say would have me weak at the knees if I was standing.

"Tell me what you want me to do." It's his favourite phrase and Christ if it doesn't get me every single time. It's my cue for a stream of unending filth, a muttered litany of "please god fuck me, harder, oh god, yes, like that." 

 

But even I can't form coherent thoughts indefinitely, especially not once his starts to stroke me in time to his own rhythm. By the time he's chanted his hips a little and hitched me a little higher so that he can fuck me harder, as per my requests, I'm just making a serious of noises. Alternately deep and husky and then whimpering slightly. 

I know from glorious experience the effect this has on him, and there it is, the small smirk. "Ask nicely" is all he says, but his voice I strained now with the effort of holding back, eyebrows knitted in concentration to form the words. "Oh god please, please, please, please, please, please..." it's easy to let the words fall from my mouth, especially with this glorious brilliant man staring down at me like I'm something precious and beautiful.

He did, something, with his hand, that I've never managed to replicate, and I came all over myself. I'm fairly sure he did soon after, but I was too blissed out to notice, and he knows that. Call it a bad habit, it's why I always try to get my partners off first.

He flopped next to me, sweaty, pleased, /!: I wanted to put my arms around him, so I rattled the cuffs again plaintively. Of course I could've twisted my thumb around to pull the catch, but that's no fun, and it's quite uncomfortable. He gave a small practised movement and the locks popped. I have no idea how it is that he can still do magic when I can barely string a sentence together. I'm sure he just does it to show off. But no matter, because I can pull him close and kiss the top of his head whilst we lie there, cooling and close in the heat of the evening. 

"you still have to do your Latin Peter." He whispers quietly in my ear, and smiles when I gently hit him in the shoulder.


End file.
